five times clarke healed bellamy (and one time he healed her)
by TheOnlyWayIsLove
Summary: She's spent too much of her life as a healer for Bellamy to feel anything but damned relief at having her work on him. He trusts her, as his healer and co-leader and just as herself.
1. I

**This was written last week and I've just polished it up, so the details may be a little out of canon! However these snapshots will form a loose canon with each other. More on their way :)**

* * *

><p><strong>I.<strong>

Clarke's field hospital consists of moss, rags and ferns – a poor stock, even by their make-do standards. But most importantly, Clarke's field hospital consists of _her. _

She's spent too much of her life as a healer for Bellamy to feel anything but damned relief at having her work on him. He trusts her, and yes, a lot of it is having his other half around to watch his back and make decisions with again, but there is some part of him saying he draws comfort from her just because she's Clarke. Even though she's actually deliberately trying to not be comforting right now. Her mouth is twisted all small and tight, tightly-balled anger drawing her shoulders up, her eyebrows together.

Weeks apart have bleached his memories of her, and knowing that it's fear for him – responsibility easily shared once more – fuelling her anger, he can't help the smirk that spreads across his face. And it's _so _ridiculous to be happy in the midst of an almost-failed escape, when they're sitting barely a hundred metres from the bodies they left behind (because that's as far as Bellamy and Murphy could drag Finn before Murphy passed out and Bellamy damn near followed him).

But still. This joy at being free and reunited is so ridiculous it just widens his smirk into a grin.

Clarke catches it as she looks up from her wrapping of his wrists, frowning even more. "What's so funny, jerk?"

"Nothin'." She narrows her eyes, tugs the ferns tighter around the moss packing that is makeshift bandage for where his hands were tied and dragged. He rolls his eyes. "Nice to have you back is all, Princess."

"Wish I could say the same for you," she retorts. "You won't be laughing if these go septic."

"I trust you." Plain and simple. The princess is startled enough that she jolts into looking up at him, lips rounded slightly in surprise. But then she just looks back down to the other unbound wrist and shakes her head.

"Grounders made you chatty, huh?"

"Nah, that's all you. They just make me wanna stab stuff. Mostly _them._"

"Yeah, _want _to, not actually manage it."

Ah. She's still pissed off because Bellamy got cut across the head when he threw himself in front of her, hands bound from the grounders' labour prison. Possibly one of the stupider things he'd done in the last hour, he reflects, but whatever, they're free and all five (six, counting their unexpected and very welcome rescuer) are alive.

"We couldn't have you beheaded in the middle of your daring rescue," he says instead. "Anyway, who said chivalry was dead?" His mouth quirks up, and when her eyes meet his, so does Clarke's, seemingly against her will.

"The arch-nemesis of the guy who said it was all girls who were the damsels in distress."

She'd looked like a warrior princess throughout the battle, Bellamy thinks, all predatorial protection for her noble cause. Hair shining, masked in anger and dirt, he'd only gotten a single proper look at her throughout. That was what happened when you were rescued from uncertain death by stealth rock-throwing, careful knife-passing, and branch-leaping gone slightly awry.

He shakes his head slightly to dispel the image somewhat. If she had been a warrior princess, he had been a blinking potato. By the time he'd recovered from the head wound and cut the rope in half, the battle had been pretty much over. In fact, he'd been freed just in time to see Finn get knifed in the thigh. He unsubtly tries to change the subject. "What do you want us to do with Spacewalker? Too bad there's no zero-G down here for us to float him through."

Clarke braids off the ends of the fern and turns his left wrist over for a final check, brow wrinkled in thought. "I think we'd better get him back to my mom. We've not got moonshine, thread or… or anything. Plus it could be poisoned, but Anya's definitely too long gone for any help there."

"We've had worse stab wounds," Bellamy replies. Clarke shoots him a funny look. "What?"

"Why're you still so upbeat?"

"We don't need anything else," he tells her carelessly. "We've got you."

She tilts her head back in a laugh that seems to light up every corner of the woods. "You sure they didn't poison you, Blake?"

"Not entirely," he admits. "But if you want me carrying Spacewalker in a fireman's lift all the way back to prison, you might have to find something to stop him bleeding the trail back."

"You up for that?" Clarke's eyes take in the measure of him, and he can see that she's noting all the hurts she can't yet heal and that she feels like she's failed with, but also… Bellamy can see her belief in him starting to rekindle, her knowledge that he'll do it even though he can see she's not happy with his condition.

And okay, his head will probably hurt like crazy the second he lifts it from this slumped position against the tree, but whatever. He's tough. And the home-shaped hole that had been torn in his heart feels like it's already being stitched back together.

If that's not healed enough to operate, he doesn't know what is. So Bellamy pushes himself up unsteadily and throws Finn's sorry ass over his shoulder while Clarke pulls Murphy upright and calls for Sterling and Monroe.

Yeah, it's good to be reunited.


	2. II

**A/N: Posting this from my sickbed because I want to thank everyone for their wonderful response to the last chapter! It has been so, so encouraging...so I'm sorry it's been a considerable length of time since the last post. I hope this chapter being 3.3x longer makes up! And that it fills the gaping hole of no-episode-tonight somewhat. (Also, swearing warning.)**

* * *

><p><strong>II.<strong>

He plays a bigger part in the rescue of his people, which is far more dramatic, painful, and difficult to pull off than the last one. He and Clarke had been desperate for no more deaths.

And of course, their long week spent carefully planning every detail went straight out the window once they put the mission in motion. At least, Bellamy thinks, there were only the few Mountain Men that were too quick off the mark who didn't make it.

But seriously, who runs _out_ of a mountain that you think is under radiation lockdown? They were only supposed to be zipped up in their radiation-protection suits when Bellamy's ragtag band blew open the rock with the rocket fuel. And of course, that hadn't worked as predicted either, even with Raven calculating all possibilities as far as she could.

They'd managed to get in, anyway. And most of the hundred (or however many they were now) had apparently been persuaded to leave Mount Weather when Clarke and Bellamy ran towards the new exit in the mountain. _Fearless leaders, reunited! _Miller had said they looked like a dream come true. He was only half joking.

But that had been then. Some people had stayed behind, Jasper had reported. And some of the Mountain Men had come with the hundred, despite the risk of their being fried alive, Jasper's girlfriend (June? Mandy? Bellamy can't grasp her name right now) among them. None of this would be a problem, except for the fact that between blowing a hole in Mount Weather and the kids regaining Camp Drop Ship – thankfully cleared of the dead bodies and ash before they arrived – doubts apparently took root. And by the time the soaked-through bunch trudged into the destroyed space that had once felt like home, Bellamy and Clarke had a near mutiny on their hands.

This really wasn't how the triumphant return was supposed to happen.

And this was exactly why Bellamy didn't usually get his hopes up. Maybe, he thought irritatedly, it was too much to hope for, that his people would care that he wasn't dead, and that they'd not want to live out the rest of their lives in captivity.

He'd not spoken more than two words to Clarke since everyone made it back, but from the closeness of her shoulders and the tightness of her jaw, she was feeling every inch as annoyed as him, and trying (probably harder) not to show it. She was the good cop, after all.

Had his people really expected that all their fabulously high-tech material tents would actually remain unpilfered? (Because _yes_ they were mostly gone.) What was in the drop ship had been protected, but Clarke _had _promised a scouting the next day to persuade her mother to give them more supplies. That was a major sacrifice on Clarke's part, since their on-again-off-again mother-daughter relationship was currently _off_ from Abby's inability to take her daughter's leadership seriously. But Clarke was going to put that aside, for the hundred.

And why was everyone complaining about the lack of supplies in camp? (Not that there had ever been that many.) Bellamy had seen straight away how clean, well-fed and healed his people looked after only a month or so in the mountain. Everyone seemed to have gained eight pounds. He reckoned he'd probably _lost _that much, or would break even on the scales if all the month's dirt facials could come too.

But they'd managed some good foraging along the way. And Bellamy had already sent out a hunting party. He'd been about to leave himself to lead it, but when Clarke had asked what he was doing as she rushed by, he hadn't the heart to abandon her. She had been right, that day in the drop ship. The kids listened to her because _he _did. And now everyone was so grumpy…

Miller had led the hunting instead.

An hour after they'd left and arguments about immediate shelter were sort of simmering down, he feels a tugging at his sleeve. A kid – small, really small. Ten? Dressed in fancy clothes, but then all his people are now, so it doesn't say much. Bellamy doesn't really recognise her, so suspects this is one of the newbies, but crouches down with as much of a smile as he can muster. (Alright, well, less of a frown anyway. _Okay, _she's reminding him a little of his sister, which both softens him and upsets him.)

"What's up?" he asks.

The kid raises her dark eyebrows, drawing them together nervously. "I – I was just – could I get some wood for a fire? I'm a bit cold." She hugs her arms self-consciously, tugging at the black braid which is matted with blood.

Bellamy takes her in. A linen dress over leggings and some sort of sandals – yeah, with the sun going down, anyone would be cold. He very nearly manages the smile this time. "Sure. But I'll chop it for you. What's your name?"

"Scarla."

"Well Scarla, if you follow me, I'll find an axe and some wood to chop, you search out the kindling. Deal?"

She nods hard, and dutifully trails at Bellamy's heels as he marches to the tool pile and seizes his favourite axe. There should be enough proper branches on the ground after that last storm, but just in case they have to go a little away from camp to chop down actual saplings, Bellamy tucks a long knife into his belt. Maybe it'll deter stupid Grounders.

Two more people complain to him before he even makes it out the gates, and Bellamy feels bad about leaving Clarke to deal with all this. But the strain of being leader to unhappy people is exhausting, and if he wants to stay (semi-)civilised in how he deals with people, he needs to work off some steam chopping wood. Also, unless they get wood, there'll be no fire, and without the fire, no food or warmth. So, it's defensive abandonment. And yes, he feels crappy for doing it. But he has to reason out that she'll like it even less if he kills one of their newly-saved people.

They trail out into the woods, just a few minutes out to where the chopping block should be. And yep – after everything their camp has gone through, the large round block is still sitting in the same spot. It lightens something in Bellamy's chest slightly. In the midst of losing Octavia, it's a nice reminder than not everything has gone. Not by a long shot.

There's actually several logs still piled up that he can use, so Bellamy gets to work, chucking his jacket over the wheelbarrow handles. (Good thing that had been hidden. It had taken the engineers too long to work out how to put it together in the first place.)

He falls back into the place-swing-chop routine easily. What once had been a frustrating task now begins to drain away his frustration from the hundred. It blanks the mind, and after ten minutes he's not really thinking about anything except how full the wheelbarrow already is. This'll keep a fire going for a few hours, anyway. If he fills it and brings it back to camp twice, maybe -

"AHHHHH!"

The scream jolts Bellamy halfway through his swing, making him twist instinctively towards it. And some part of him also knows what's about to happen, because his muscles are trying to pull back even as the axe cuts down and into his shin.

He reckons the pain's made him black out for a second, because next thing he knows, he's crouched over the block and Scarla's pushing his shoulder, her little face pulled tight with upset. "Are you…"

"I'm fine," Bellamy manages to say, doing a mental scan of his leg and okay, it hurts like a goddamn bitch, but he can probably hobble with the wood and hand himself in to Clarke once the fire is going. Then another thought crosses his pain-addled mind. "Hey, what'd you scream for?"

"I thought there were panther eyes," Scarla admits, red-faced, "but they were just fireflies."

"Really?" It's not firefly season. Not even close; it was just ending when they landed. Bellamy glances around the near-dark clearing, deciding. "How's about we take back all the great wood you've collected now? We need to drop it off before there's too much to carry."

Through the pain in his right leg, he finally manages an actual crooked smile at Scarla, who bares her teeth back.

They set off, his jerky motions making the wheelbarrow tip dangerously with every other step. There's just one more ridge left before camp when shouts break through the homely drift of the night. _Trouble._ And just like always, Bellamy just glances once at his companion before running towards it. He's – well, he's been in better shape. But it's only thirty seconds later that he careens into camp, gates abandoned by the guards he'd posted not two hours ago.

He dumps the 'barrow and runs up to the mob outside the drop ship, pulling people to either side. They start at the sight of him, which helps in his push towards the middle. A weight at the back of his shirt tells him Scarla's somehow still holding on.

He breaks through the throng to the centre with leg pulsing, arms waving, and expression radiating anger. Yep – as expected, some absolute shit is screaming at Clarke, their cronies shoving Jasper and Monty around as they stand either side of Clarke. She's doing a good job of looking fierce, but the kid opposite her probably has eighty pounds on her, and isn't really looking for a rational argument.

And in the rest of this single glance, Bellamy takes in how the stupid cronies are gonna actually hit Plant Boy and Goggles in seconds. So he does the first thing he can think of: end the fight by starting it. He throws his whole body in a massive punch at Angry Kid's face.

Angry Kid reels back, but isn't floored, which is probably a good thing; anything involving legs isn't going to go Bellamy's way right now. With this in mind, Bellamy lunges forwards again and delivers a cracking – literally, bone crunches – blow to the idiot's nose with his left fist. This makes the guy reel back even further, into the outer edge of the crowd, and Clarke shouts in dismay, marching the few feet up to him.

"Bellamy!"

"He was about to attack you," he says roughly. "What's his problem?"

She turns her head away, eyeing up the throng that's still looking for blood. "It doesn't matter. Just a stupid opinion. Nothing you can fix."

"Like hell." Bellamy reaches out to touch her upper arm, the pain creasing the angry lines in his face further. "What did he _say, _Clarke?"

"That…" she sighs. "That we just want them back for the power. We're militaristic. And um, something about me… 'screwing you for the power like a hungry…'"

Bellamy can guess what word she's missed out and that's it, all the frustration he'd worked off is burning through him with pulsing ferocity. He clenches her arm before realising what he's doing, and turns around to address the mob.

"We haven't brought you back here for the power," he starts scathingly. His people fall quiet. "We saved those who chose to be saved. We might not have hot water, or incredible food, but unlike Mount Weather, we're not doing mutation experiments on some of our so-called guests!"

Whispers break out around him. Yep, as Clarke had guessed, nobody had worked out the truth about the human trials in the time that she was gone. "You chose to come with us, and you chose us to lead you. Don't go starting fights with Clarke, when all she has done is keep you safe! Anyone who's had an injury since being on the ground, we'd have got infected and _died _without her."

Bellamy glances over at the princess, face softening slightly at her embarrassment, but hardening up as he scans the restless crowd. "Now get back to your posts! Whatever stuff was in the food at Mount Weather has been making you dependent on them…" well, it was a theory Clarke had, but an easy explanation was best right now, "so let's get a fire going for when our food gets in."

People start chatting, some smiling, and gradually disperse. Bellamy stands tall beside Clarke with arms folded and a stern expression to drive the kids away. After a few moments she sighs in relief beside him, turning inwards.

"Thanks," she mutters, and heads up the ramp into the drop ship. "It was all going so well, too, it's just when – Bellamy?"

She turns just in time to see him attempt a second, staggering step – and fall to his hands and knees as the effort of keeping up the injured leg becomes too much for his right knee.

"Bel!" Before he's even sat back, Clarke's kneeling over him and pushing up his pants leg, her gentle fingers clinically cool against his burning shin. He focuses on her golden hair beneath him, trying to ignore the distancing pain washing over him. Clarke sucks in a breath almost silently upon seeing the nasty gash, but to her credit looks up at him with an almost unbothered expression. It's just the little crease between her eyebrows which speaks all the care in the world. "Nice job with that, moron." She glances over her shoulder, but there's not really anyone paying attention to them. "Let's just get you in before anyone decides to start a riot."

He manages to stand up by pushing up on her shoulders, then she tucks neatly under his left arm so he can hop inside as subtly as possible. Through the teeth-gritting pain, he manages, "Never let it be said that the damsel in distress came second."

Clarke snorts. Bellamy reflects that he should probably stop trying to save her since she _is _a very competent leader who's probably not actually in need of him. "Yeah, I'm so distressed I can hardly stitch you up. _God, _Bel, how'd you manage it?"

"Axe. We need a damn fire," he says semi-grumpily, regretting too late that he might have offended her. But no, of course not. Clarke just shakes her head, amusement softening the corners of her mouth, and turns away to pull out her sutra kit, scrounging up the last of their alcohol.

"But we _don't _need you on crutches for the next eight weeks because your bone's shattered… I don't know how you even managed to stop that. This is seriously good luck. Still gonna hurt like a crazy, and if you pull these stitches I swear I'll stitch you to the bed for months."

He considers a quip about her tying him to the bed but dismisses it; Bellamy doesn't want to annoy her and ruin the moment. "Yeah, yeah. The camp needs us too much for that." At her icy glare he huffs and adds, "_but _I'll try to not rip anything, _alright_?"

"Good," the princess responds primly. "Now do you want a rag to bite down on or you gonna be a masochist about this too?"

"What do you think?" Bellamy lifts the corner of his mouth, promptly gritting his teeth as she pours alcohol into the wound. _"Shit!"_

She shoots him a wry grin but doesn't offer a chance to take back his previous decision, just moves in and gets to work.

An hour later, when they've both cleaned up as well as they can in the dirt-encrusted drop ship, Clarke helps prop Bellamy up (his hand gets tangled in her hair and it takes a long minute to untangle his fingers from those warrior-princess locks and oh god he even brushes her neck twice and makes her jump because of his calluses against that super-soft skin, _oops_). With her eyes fixed on his, Clarke slowly walks out of the drop ship, attempting for his sake to make it appear like a slow saunter she happens to be taking under Bellamy's arm.

Really, of course, she's his crutch. As always. And Bellamy feels a rush of gratitude that she is protecting him as much as possible from their people, keeping him looking as strong as possible, when really he probably deserves to be dumped on the ramp and left to struggle along, alone.

Dusk-shadowed faces turn towards the co-leaders, but nobody seems to care much either way about their reappearance. Maybe it's too much stimulation for one day. Maybe it's the smell of roasting venison and smoke.

Or maybe it's just that Team Clarke-and-Bellamy is normal again, part of life. As he glances up between staggering steps, Bellamy hopes it's that.


	3. III

**A/N: trying to fit this story more in with canon. Thus, definitely don't read if you haven't seen the midseason finale! Speaking of which- it's my personal headcanon that Kane is actually Bellamy's father so I couldn't believe it when he addressed him as "son" hahaha ****_help_**

** You can thank Toto's song "Africa" for this update! It is super-inspiring for Bellarke, whatever your thoughts on 80s synth pop:**

**_I seek to cure what's deep inside, frightened of this thing that I've become…_**

**_It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you_**

**_There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do_**

**Seriously, I think it might just power me through the next chapter too (which is going to shake up the pattern thus far established through chapters I-III). Even though I'm supposed to be updating my other fic first… **

**So much love and hugs and tears of joy go out to everyone who has favourited, followed and reviewed my baby so far. I love you all so much and it inspires me so, so much – thank you a thousand times for your kindness! (Also to Val, for the cheerleading 3) I'm dissatisfied with the ending, but you've all waited far too long. **

* * *

><p><strong>III. <strong>

"You just have to _not _be a pain in the ass," Bellamy grumps. He hunches his shoulders in a futile attempt to hide anyone seeing them in this dimly-lit Ark corridor, checking furtively over both shoulders. Camp Jaha makes him feel like he's constantly under scrutiny, once more living life desperate to keep his sister safe. "You've got til tomorrow at noon to decide. You've had three days here. And we're not cutting you off, Clarke's made sure anyone can come back any time."

Never mind that he had agreed, but it's late and this Rowan kid has already changed his mind _four _times. Bellamy has a lot of time for kids with problems, but there seem to be any number of correct answers in Rowan's case, and he can't seem to stick with a single one.

"I know," the boy mumbles, wringing his hands, "I wanted to stay with my Dad, but he won't let me outside the fence… Clarke didn't think it was a good idea to leave."

Bellamy tries to keep his face impassive and his voice final. "Clarke is trying to do the best for you. We'll be back in a month. Try staying a month and call a review at the end." Never mind that the princess is so desperate to leave Camp Jaha that she's overcompensating for everyone else's needs.

"Okay, okay…" Rowan takes a deep breath and raises his chin towards Bellamy. "I'll do it. I'll stay."

"Good man." Bellamy offers him a smile. "Now get out there and celebrate, yeah?"

"Yeah. Got it. Thanks Bellamy."

"Any time." Rowan offers him a salute in reply and merrily strolls off in the direction of the campfire. It was a celebration of the return of the hundred, the Ark united once more in a way nobody had ever dared hope for. Adults and kids alike were letting off steam, although Monty had tried to let both sides think they were the only ones with the alcohol; it kept everyone happier.

Bellamy rubs his forehead, mind drifting to where his co-leader would be found. She occupies a well-worn spot in his mind – he finds himself questioning almost every action now, whether Clarke would approve or not – but in the last few days' fraught political games, she has been taking it hard.

Bellamy kind of understood. The adults didn't trust them, definitely not him, and not to keep up their own camp, so Clarke was trying her damndest to keep everyone civil and open the whole time. Not to mention the Finn-shaped demons she wrestles with. It's hard on her, and Bellamy hates that he is part of the burden on her.

He needs to see her, doesn't stop to examine why as he pushes off the wall and marches outside, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. Jasper reckons nights are going to get shorter soon, which would be nice. There's not enough daylight any more for all their building and developments back at camp, back home.

Between the clumps of talking and laughing people, he strides with purpose towards the fire. As predicted, he can just about make out a short girl there with a golden outline to her head. He picks up the pace, shoulders relaxing downwards and strides loosening, and comes to stand right behind Clarke. Over her shoulder, Bellamy can see her hands rubbing together almost frantically in an attempt to get warm.

He leans down to her ear, lips tangled in her hair to say quietly, "Last night here and only seven kids are staying. You did good, Princess."

She lets out a shaky laugh, pulling her arms into herself and staring forwards. "I'm not sure the adults will actually let us leave tomorrow. And it's less than half we came down with."

"Only just." Bellamy notices how her whole body is shivering now, though with the cold or exhaustion or emotion, he can't tell. He's got no other words of comfort either, so without stopping to overthink, he uncurls his arms and pulls them across, inch by inch, over Clarke's stomach. It should feel awkward, but with his chin tucked in beside the crown of her hair, her back warm against him, Bellamy feels like he could just fall asleep here and rest at last.

Clarke's not exactly stiff against him, but it takes a moment for her shoulders to relax properly and her head to roll back to his shoulder. Inch by inch, she sinks into him. Quiet moments later, she lets out a deep breath that fills Bellamy with a strange hum.

Just like all their communication, she doesn't need to do anything else for him to hear her meaning. _Finally resting_, that sigh says; _we haven't rested in so long_.

Bellamy's own slowed breathing agrees. It takes a weight off his own shoulders to see Clarke forgetting – for once – the painful tangle of emotions associated with her mother and the Ark. Bellamy struggles to feel his own connection to the Ark; all he ever cared for was his mother and Octavia, and neither of them are here. There's certainly nothing else for him in this place of nightmare cages.

Slowly, he has put together Clarke's own hidden Ark jigsaw. The girl from Phoenix had a lot of good times there, with her beloved parents, and medical apprenticeship, and wonderful best friend; the girl on the ground hates and loves her mother for betraying her father, and holds the lives of people in her hands for real, and her best friend is dead.

Clarke is and is not the girl from Phoenix. And if Bellamy can understand anything, it is the difficulty of escaping incarnations of your past self.

It is so easy to stand like this, holding her, that Bellamy refuses to question why he is doing it. If hugging Clarke creates a shield of peace for them, he isn't going to contaminate it. Not yet. (Everything he touches goes to waste in the end. Even his strongest tie, Octavia, has snapped now.)

The warmth of Clarke, combined with the flames, is so relaxing that when their bubble is burst by a shout very nearby, Bellamy physically feels the cold weight on his skin again.

It is almost painful, but Clarke is twisting around to find the ruckus, so he drops his arms. His co-leader sends him one suspended, shared look of connection before she disappears. It fills Bellamy with a sense of grave things to come, and an ache of displacement somehow. He stays where he is for a second, chilly all of a sudden, trying to puzzle it out. But with another shout comes the need to focus.

Over the heads of the crowd, he sees the flash of Clarke's hair; it looks like she's placating the two boys at the centre of the fight, and there's a sort of relaxation that comes across the people around them as they realise there won't be a fight after all.

But there _is _still movement. A struggling set of people – no, just the one person, pushing towards him. Bellamy frowns, but waits for the person to emerge by the fire.

Another ten seconds and the dark figure comes lurching out, limbs slightly akimbo, normally sleek hair all matted and torn. And oh _God, _it's Raven, brace clanking and squeaking on her poor leg, but she doesn't even seem to notice the blood smeared across her face as she trips towards him. Bellamy has to quickly step forwards to catch her, but even as he tries to haul her upright, she pushes him off roughly and turns her face away.

"Go _'way, _Bellamy!" She slurs her words slightly and stumbles towards the fire. Bellamy ignores her, following closely in case he has to catch her again, but doesn't touch the broken mechanic.

"You came to me," he says neutrally instead.

Or maybe it's not as neutral as he thought, because when she turns her head towards him, there's an aggressive snarl across her face. Bellamy is an expert in replacing emotions with anger, but he's also slowly realising that this destructiveness doesn't actually work if you want to do more than survive. And actually, it's most useful if you don't intend to survive.

"Don't you _dare pity _me," she hisses. "This is _your fault._"

"Raven –"

"You got him that stab wound!" She lurches towards him; Bellamy steps back. "You kept back Clarke. _You _didn't stop him. And you just let her go, go and – "

A great sob falls out of Raven's mouth, and she half-turns, shoving her arm over her face. Bellamy goes to move towards her – offer comfort, maybe protest – but in a flash Raven is transformed once more to a vicious avenger.

"No," she snarls, turning and shoving Bellamy back, towards the fire. He glances over his shoulder, very aware of the pit now a foot behind him, but has to focus on the glint of… something metal, which Raven is holding like a weapon. He doubts she came here armed to hurt him, but grief has a way of sitting on your chest and kidnapping your spirit; teamed with moonshine, this natural warrior has just become quite an irrational and nasty threat. "No, you don't get to call for your partner. Clarke's gone. But she'll come back to you."

Raven's eyes have filled, her jaw has clenched, her lips pulled back to reveal grinding teeth. "She'll come back for us, Raven," Bellamy says quietly. "She cares about you, so much."

"Clarke ruined my life," Raven states, stepping forward. "But who let her? _You._"

She probably overbalanced; she probably only meant to jab Bellamy emphatically in the chest. But all of Raven's weight slams into him, and he doesn't have time to think anything besides _oh shit _before he lands in the fire pit.

Everything happens very quickly after that.

Raven is sprawled across his legs, which are somehow still on the muddy grass; for him to get out of the fire as fast as he can, he has to dig his hands into the burning material so he can push upwards as hard as possible. It works, kind of: Raven is tipped off and Bellamy makes it most of the way up, but is forced to push his right hand down again momentarily, pain seizing up his arm.

And then he's up again with a spinning head. This position – standing in pain – is too familiar. He glares down at Raven as she pulls herself up from the ground again. Because now – with his hands beginning to radiate an excrutiating heat that he is already bored of feeling, let alone in the weeks to come – Bellamy cannot contain his anger at her accusations to a patient understanding.

"Finn's death is Finn's fault," he barks, eyes boring with a burning fury into Raven's. "Not Clarke's, not mine. She didn't choose to be lied to_, _okay? She didn't choose to be captured with him either. And she definitely doesn't choose to be controlled by anyone else, or have her actions blamed on others." Bellamy steps closer up to her, rage written all over him. "Do not blame Clarke for any of what Finn chose."

Raven opens her mouth to respond, hatred lining her haggard face, but Bellamy pushes past her and seizes the nearest delinquent. By all unfortunate accounts, it's Rowan. "Take Raven to Abby Griffin's infirmary," he orders. "She's ill and needs to sleep it off."

Rowan takes a look at the coiled bundle of rage several yards away and visibly balks. "Bellamy, is she –"

"Just get someone to help. I've got to find Clarke." He nods at Rowan, who swallows and nods back.

He shoulders through the crowd, burning hands splayed across the melted plastic. There's anger inside him that he's trying not to look at, anger at Spacewalker and his stupid womanising that's turned Raven into a harpy and his _no damn right_ to lying, anger at Raven for her blame and breaking this bubble of peace he'd found with Clarke, and yeah, anger at himself for letting all of this happen.

But he tries hard, really hard, to concentrate on searching out that golden head, on channelling this anger into something useful so he doesn't turn it on the world instead. He needs to burn it up, rid himself – how?

"Bellamy!" He almost slams into Abby Griffin. She smiles up carefully as he half-steps away. "Are you okay?" He can almost hear the "_you look like you're about to murder someone"_ tacked on the end, but Dr Griffin tactfully refrains from voicing it.

"I need Clarke, have you seen her?"

"She went towards the infirmary. One of the kids hit their head in the scuffle."

Bellamy nods his thanks and continues on that way. He'd hoped she might be there; it's pretty close, needing to be easily accessible, and Rowan is further behind with Raven.

The remaining people between Bellamy and the med bay clear away when they catch sight of him. Their inebriated chatter and warmth no longer seems to create a bubble for warmth but a curtain that separates him (and maybe Clarke) from the Ark cattle. How can they all be so stupid?

Loud metallic clangs echo as Bellamy stomps up the ramp and past the privacy curtain. Clarke has her back to him, is talking quietly – firmly but sympathetically – to some overgrown kid who's been allotted too much damn hooch so thinks he can show them up by picking fights.

Bellamy grits his teeth, but his hands are shaking and burning, and he's pretty sure he can smell singed hair, and his shin is throbbing so he's probably pulled the three-week-old stitches there, and –

Before he can process what he's done, Bellamy finds himself hearing a massive bang and his toes ache. The wall looks untouched, which infuriates him even more, so he draws back his leg and kicks again, harder, so he almost loses his balance and the resulting bang fills the room.

He's contemplating a third kick when his shoulder is seized from behind and he is spun around. Clarke's face, filled with confusion and worry, gazes up at him while the kid she was telling off scampers out behind. Bellamy searches her face for a second, but there is no fear there. That helps him untense enough to slowly draw out his hands and wordlessly show them to her.

Clarke pulls her eyes from his. She frowns only slightly as she cradles his burning hot palms with her cool ones, but her eyes widen when her fingertips skim the damaged skin. She turns them both so there is more light, and the full damage is revealed to them both. Bellamy can't help but wince; splotches of white and angry red pattern his palms and fingers. His left hand is already puffing up but he suspects that the more damaged right hand will be sore for far longer.

"Bellamy…" Clarke breathes. And all of a sudden, it breaks the spell. "Bel! Oh my gosh, here." Clarke runs across the room and heaves up a bucket, hauling it over and dumping it on the nearest plinth. "Come on, get your hands in there _immediately._"

Bellamy jumps up to sit beside the bucket, peering in. It seems to be filled with plain old water, so he plunges his hands in with more force than is strictly necessary. There is relief alongside the pain that the coldness brings. Bellamy breathes out and remembers when Octavia burnt herself in their tiny room because she was learning to toddle and her arm knocked the cooker; the Walden water had been off for seven hours and wasn't like to come on for another fifteen, so all they'd been able to do was hold her arm against the coldest metal objects that they could find.

"What happened?" Clarke asks quietly. She's standing close, just the other side of the bucket. Bellamy looks at her quiet upset, her long lashes, and gathers his words while Rowan struggles in with a now fully blacked-out Raven. He deposits her on a bed on the opposite side of the infirmary and Bellamy nods to him, waiting til they're alone again before speaking.

"Raven came up to me, pissed and pissed off. Started talking shit about how it was your fault and my fault for Finn. I defended, and – she got too enthusiastic in her anger. I ended up in the fire. Miracle this jacket only melted a little. Tore the stitches in my leg trying to get back up."

He thought Clarke would immediately check his shin, but she stays rooted in front of him instead, biting her chapped lip. The tight lines across her forehead have returned, and Bellamy wishes he could drown the past angry minutes in her eyes. His fingers twitch with the need to smooth across her forehead, but unless he wants to drip water down her face…

His fingers stay where they are instead. The cold is hurting, but it feels like it's doing its job, draining the heat from him slowly but surely. _Kind of like Clarke._

"If I'm going to suture your leg and treat those burns, we're going to need to send out a search party first thing in the morning for the Plantain," she says finally. "I need to double-check, but I think _Plantago major _grows all around here, so I can make up a poultice as soon as we've got the leaves. We'll push back our leaving til the day after tomorrow. Your hands need to stay in cold water for hours, if possible. And – "

"Princess." She meets his eyes again. "They don't need to know. Let's leave tomorrow."

"But you're hurt," she protests. "Hey, let me see those torn stitches."

"_Clarke."_ At that she stops trying to pull up his pant leg but stays on her knees. "They don't need to know," Bellamy repeats. "I'll live. I can't stay here another day when…"

She looks up at him, and her eyes are filled with tired tears. She heaves in a breath before saying, "Maybe Raven's right."

"No, Clarke," Bellamy says immediately. "We've done this. And you do nothing but save us, over and over. Even the adults can tell that."

She concentrates on pushing his trouser leg up, shaking her head at the torn sutra. Her fingers and breath brushing over his skin sends peculiar shivers through him. Bellamy stares at the top of her head, reflecting the light beneath the grime. He likes that the light shines through alongside the muck. It gives him hope.

"Do you want me to stitch you up now or in the morning?" Clarke asks at last, standing up. Her topic change is a transparent attempt to bury that emotion in her work instead. It occurs to Bellamy that this is as dangerous as burying it under anger, except she can't stitch up a wall to help get it out. "Bellamy?"

"Talk to me," he says roughly. "Don't just channel it."

Clarke blinks. "I – well, how about I talk to you while I stitch you up now?"

"Yeah, that works." Bellamy tries to shift the bucket but winces as his sore skin scrapes the sides. Clarke rolls her eyes and moves it for him, muttering about requisitioning moonshine and targeting top foragers as she goes on a hunt for the sutra kit.

When she returns, he removes his hand from the bucket long enough to grasp her wrist. Her healer's skin feels like a sauna against his cooled hand, but Bellamy gives her a soft smile. "Thanks for sorting me out, Princess. And… sorry for the outburst."

Clarke gives a self-deprecating smile back, moving to squeeze his arm. "I'm pretty used to us mopping each other up by now, Bel."

With those words, he feels such a sudden surge of gratitude towards her that Bellamy cannot keep himself still; he _needs_ to have her arms around his shoulders and crush her to him. It is a ridiculous desperate pull, and he moves to quickly pull his other hand from the water.

But Clarke catches his wrists and pushes them back in the cold water, grimacing at Bellamy's stubborn mask that falls into place at the accidental rejection. "We need to leave first," she says, and he's not sure if the words are for her or him, but there's a hundred meanings buried there and what she means is _I'm not going anywhere, we're staying at each other's sides._

So Bellamy nods and grits his teeth while she begins to talk.


End file.
